know them by this sign
by deadpan riot
Summary: deserters, renegades, revolutionaries, and mercenaries. The origin and impact of the crimson bird that unites, divides, and brings the nation to its knees. Chpt.2: the princess finds an ally in the defector called Saker
1. begin again, sweetheart

**know them by this sign  
**_**begin again, sweetheart  
**_**Synopsis: **evidence of revolution can come in all shapes and sizes, in the mundane and the extraordinary. the signs that register the deepest are the ones etched in time, in memory, in blood long-since spilled. Logan knows this, feels the weight of one such sign bearing down on his already burdened shoulders.

* * *

The old clock in the corner chimed, the discordant melody pulling Logan from the labyrinth of his thoughts. The thing needed to be fixed, had needed to be fixed since he was a boy, but he just couldn't bring himself to do it. His father had loved the sound it made since acquiring it, broken or not. And really, in the end, Logan found himself to be too much of a sentimentalist to take away that little connection to his memories, despite how much it hurt.

Often he wondered, staring out from his perch on the throne he had come to despise, what Sparrow would say to him now. Harsh words for failing to protect all he had bled for? Or would the former gypsy king look upon him with the kind eyes and sad smile of a fellow man forced to bend until he broke?

He didn't know, and that hurt more than anything.

A soft knock at the door. "I've got your dinner, sire."

"Put it over there." Dear Avo was that ragged sound his _voice_?

The maid, a slight little thing barely older than he did as she was told, throwing him a worried glance. He watched her out of the corner of his eye, noting the warring emotions on her face.

"Sire, I know it's not my place-"She had paused by the door, a hand fisted in her apron. Clearly, worry had won out over fear. "But…you should really eat that. You don't look well, sire, and it's worrying, watching your king suffer from lack of sleep and a proper diet…"

"Your concern has been noted. Now, if you would, please leave. And close the door on your way out."

He waited until the soft click of the door signaled she had gone before releasing the bone-weary sigh her speech inspired. Touching, yes, but not pertinent. He had far larger concerns at hand. The beast in the blackness, Crawler, she had called it. It, and the _children_, the shades with hellfire eyes that had slaughtered his men, were coming. To destroy his home, consume his kingdom and all who dwelled there.

And he felt so damn _helpless_.

King of Albion he may be, but he was only one man. And there was only so much money he could funnel into a defensive. Sparrow had never believed in behaving like a proper king, never hoarding gold taken from the people, never tearing apart the land for a profit. And he and his kingdom had flourished, heralding him as the Great Hero King. Logan had strived for that, to live up to his father's status and become the next Great Hero King of Albion.

A pity he had failed so wonderfully.

Oh he had tried, to be sure. Grand adventures that lent him notoriety not born of being royalty. He'd eradicated trolls for Avo's sake, not an easy task. He'd stood side by side with his men in the muck, stared death in the ugly, earthy face and laughed, as he knew Sparrow would have. But that was an age ago, a dream he could barely grasp any longer. It had been replaced with a nightmare, of darkness and terror and an old woman that gazed at him with such eerie eyes and declared he must act, or all would be lost.

And he was doing a right shite job of it.

The people no longer cheered when they saw him, his staff threw him furtive glances, and Reaver smiled that smile of his that made him question his own judgment at every turn. And his sister…Walter had taken to training her, young though she was, in combat. His little sister, who he wanted so desperately to stay the sweet, innocent girl he'd grown up protecting. She was a feisty little sprite, far too much like their father to be the perfect little princess everyone wanted. And she had his _eyes_, just as fiery, just as cunning, and just as tainted by their father's unnamed sacrifice so many years previous. He'd known, had always known from the minute he laid eyes on her as a babe, and she had fixed those stunning irises on him.

She would be the Hero, not him.

Albion needed that, needed her, more than it had yet to realize. The blind seeres had come to him, but he knew even before she'd finished speaking that _he_ was not the Savior she alluded to. It tore him up, the realization that his dreams had burned, turned ash in his hands and begun to slip through his fingers. It was maddening, the sea of emotions in his head, more so then the strings he could just barely see being pulled all around him. He'd wanted to be a king to live up to, as his father was, wanted his sister to have everything Sparrow had made sure they didn't take for granted, all the things he never had.

More than anything, he wanted her to have a normal, happy life. Free of the castle and the mundane, if extravagant life she lived now. Instead, she was being trained to be a killer, forged in the heat of strife and honed in the chaos of revolution.

Because there would be one, he could feel it in his gut, see it all around him.

He was trying, but it wasn't _enough_, he was pushing his people to their limit, becoming a tyrant in their eyes, and still he was losing the battle. Maybe revolution was what Albion needed, just as he knew they needed a Hero, not a man struggling to stand on his own two feet in the face of annihilation. And with Sparrow gone, that left only the little girl with crimson eyes, too young to yet bear the burden currently sitting on his shoulders.

Logan ran a finger over the crimson stitching of the garment occupying his lap. The coat, not an extraordinary thing in and of itself, heralded the coming of a storm far closer to home than the _thing_ in Aurora. Under the cheap black dye and the grime of rough living, the message it spoke was just as clear now as it had been all those years previous: we are deserters, we are renegades, and we won't stop until we've turned Albion on its head.

Even though it seemed like the civil war that had torn the country apart was long ago, really it had been not quite a generation. And although he doubted any of the men donning the symbol painted in crimson were out of nappies when it truly _meant _something, Logan had little doubt they understood its impact.

"_Revolution,"_ His father had said, "_is only what they called it after all was said and done. An uprising, a mutiny, all fancy words to say we burned the kingdom to the ground, and rebuilt it how we saw fit. People call us war heroes, but we aren't. We killed our kin, burned our land, and overthrew the crown over something that could have-should have been solved without the spilling of so much blood. Remember that, Logan. Just because I've lived a life of violence doesn't mean that's the way it should be. People like me, we're here to bear that burden so others don't have to. I hope you never have to become that person, but with the way of things…well; only time will tell."_

From the time he was young he'd been told the story of his father's exploits, but only a few people had left out the puffed-up glamorous bits and told him the truth. And now all of them were dead, save one, and he wasn't the best of people to go to for advice. Reaver had always been straight with him, at least as far as his father was concerned, but without Sparrow there to rein him in so to speak, the deviant's solutions were barely tolerable, at _best_.

Logan sighed, running a hand over his weary eyes. Sleep had become scarce, now that the world was slowly falling down around him. And the old military coat in his lap guaranteed he wouldn't be catching any rest tonight. The symbol would haunt his dreams, the fierce red bird, the tattered sparrow painted in crimson.

Revolution would come, only it wouldn't be him following in his father's footsteps.

* * *

a/n: for clarification: my Sparrow(the one I used in the sergeant) has crimson eyes-a lingering effect from sacrificing his youth to the shadow court and having it given back for services rendered to the temple of light(something that can happen in game fyi, not just making shit up-you can have your youth returned, and the weird coloring stays). the shit i made up is the eye color being passed on to his Hero offspring. Now you know. ;D


	2. they wear your colors with veiled intent

**know them by this sign  
_they wear your color_**_**s with veiled intentions  
**_

* * *

The first time she sees it, she's amazed her mentor says nothing about it. She can't take her eyes off the crimson wings, stretching from shoulder to shoulder of the man passed out drunk on the table. And though the jacket, clearly of military design, is stained a cheap black she knows: they truly are on the brink of revolution. The rallying symbol simply lacks a leader to raise it high and put wind in its wings.

And who better, she thinks, then the daughter of the man who gave the symbol life? They are bonded in crimson, her and he, in blood and the taint of sacrifice, a sacrifice she cannot name but is all too aware of every time she sees her reflection.

So she dons the jacket, hesitantly, as her father did, though she will never know this. It is too big and reeks of stale ale and something she doesn't want to think about, but still she wears it proudly. For she does it to gain allies, to start on her quest to make Albion a better place.

She infiltrates their camp, the men who wear His sign, and comes to know what it means to clash swords with a living man, a human like she and not a Hollowman or an animal feral with hunger. Encircled and outnumbered, staring down into the eyes of the enemy she's beaten, the weight of the bird on her back is tangible in a way she never imagined it could be.

So she offers her hand and a wry smile.

The man, leader of the cawing men caging them in, he gives her an odd grin and a veiled comment on her gaze. And even though he is too young to have been there, she knows he has heard the stories, has chosen his symbol with purpose. Rough and dirty with blood on his hands, still he is an ally, a leader of men willing to follow her cause and lend his voice to the sign they bore.

And it is he, after peace is made with the dwellers and they too are behind her that presents her with the uniform of her, their, cause. It fits perfectly and smells of pine and newly tailored clothes, colors vibrant and clearly of the finest craft. And it is black and crimson, for though she is her father's daughter, she is not he: her colors are not his colors, and her cause is not his cause.

She often wonders if they had been waiting for her all along, these deserters, these renegades who bore her colors long before she found them.


	3. just a casualty of war

**know them by this sign  
_just a casualty of_****_ war_**

* * *

Bowerstone is burning, once again a casualty of war. It has witnessed the rise and fall of many a regime, has seen the horrors, the sorrows, the joys of its people. And though this upheaval is new to those on either side, the siblings bound and torn by fate and blood and the coming darkness, it is not new to the city that lights the night sky.

It will burn, because that is what is required to keep its walls strong.

The woman at the forefront stands in the echo of her father, her boots following the imprint his left so many years ago. She too brings fire and lead and steel to bear within the walls of her home, raising his symbol up from the ashes of the past to fly, to sing its cacophonous song.

And in the end she too will know the burden of war and ruling.

Those behind her rejoice in the destruction, but she does not. It, to her, is a necessity and little more, something to be saddened by, something with which to sharpen her resolve. The tattered sparrow is a weight on her shoulders, and she alone feels the sharpness of its talons on her grime streaked skin.

He feels it too, she knows.

The look in her brother's dark, tired eyes tells her as much. She does not threaten him, holsters her weapons as her mentor declares their victory. She isn't listening, and neither is he, the two of them seeing the other for the first time since Avo knows when, truly seeing.

And she does not see a tyrant, and he does not see an ignorant child too fragile to handle the truth.

Both have seen the darkness, the terror of it mirrored in one another's eyes. And she knows, in that moment, that her brother is not the man so many claim him to be. Just as he knows, when he sees the fire in her eyes and the symbol on her shoulders, that she is the Hero Albion needs.

And when she has been crowned Queen and all are crying out for the blood of the former King, she looks into his eyes and steadfastly refuses.

Too many have died, by both their hands, and she knows his death will not help their cause, not lift her father's symbol higher. And she knows he was trying, Avo was he trying, to save his people, their people, from the monsters both knew too well were real.

And the grudge she had held, the proclamation of never forgetting, were gone, had been gone since the night she learned that the monsters under her bed were real.

Because he had known, even then, that she would one day stand in his place and carry the burden he wasn't equipped to shoulder. And he was glad to be rid of it, the weight of hatred and distrust, the burning knowledge of the oncoming storm only he, then, could stop.

And she was willing to take it, because he too was his father's son and Hero or not he would be an irreplaceable ally. And more than that, all they had in the end was each other, the children of the great Hero King who was no longer there to keep the bad things at bay.

So he stays at her side, and she is grateful for it, because no bird can fly without wind to bolster its wings, and he is the gale she needs if this is to be the last time Bowerstone burns before their eyes.


	4. a beginning a middle but never an end

**know them by this sign  
_a beginning_**_** a middle but never an end**_

* * *

Crimson and white, colors chosen to imitate the man they stood behind. A bird, a sparrow, fiery and tattered like the man who carried its name became their symbol. Soon, too soon, these pristine uniforms would become ragged and stained, blood and rough living taking a toll. They would come to be infamous, these ivory militant jackets spattered with scarlet, a symbol to all who dared look of revolution.

Sparrow would haltingly don it, and his enemies would unconsciously fear it. And though the colors would fade, coated in gunpowder and gore and an even helping of muck, the symbol would only come to burn brighter. The untamed bird with the unclipped wings, its song the sound of gunfire and steel, the cries of victory, of agony, and the silence that would inevitably settle back in.

And even with the war over and done, the renegades crying victory, the symbol of their cause would linger in the minds of all who bore witness.

Years and years and still it lingers, lurking in the shadows until it is once again needed. And when that time comes, when the new king becomes a tyrant in the eyes of his people, the bird will once again spread its wings and take flight in the minds of those who would enact change.

Only this time, the creature is well known, the sight of it heralding the tides of change in a way it had not before. For this king would know the sign, would understand what it meant long before the call to arms reached its peak. And so too would the new leader know what it meant to bear it, this symbol, more so than any of the others. For though the Hero King was gone, his legacy would live on in the new bearer of his sign, the child who shared his crimson eyes and heroic bloodline.

The child who would do as fate demanded, just as he had.


End file.
